


bright light living in the shade

by mirandastylinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Eating Disorder, Eating Disorders, Eating disorder!harry, Help, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Prostitute, Prostitute!Louis, Prostitution, Self Harm, ed!harry, its been a long 100 years since i wrote tags for fics, lou's pretend name is park btw incase of confusion, ok i done now bye, oops did i just ruin that, self harm!harry, tehe, whoopsie daisy, ◕‿◕
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirandastylinson/pseuds/mirandastylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is a little nervous bug who wants cuddles and kisses but he has a dark mind. louis is a ominous soul who refuses to believe he could ever feel love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bright light living in the shade

**Author's Note:**

> hello! (｡◕‿◕｡)
> 
> this is my first fic in what seems like a gazillion million years, but i’ve worked very hard on this and have spent months on it! i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoy writing it, and don’t hate lou too much ●︿● i promise he’s just a baba boo.
> 
> this is a chaptered fic and elsewhere on my achive i have an edited copy of this fic, albeit much shorter. i wrote that for my creative writing and as it had to be handed into my teacher i can hardly say this version was fit for teacher-appropriateness. this is the proper fic tho.
> 
> song title is ghost by ella henderson, and i spent the majority of my time listening to that song while writing this so i feel i had to credit dear old ella somewhere.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks. Cheers.”

She has the gleam in her eye that means she wants more, knows she’ll get more, but will save herself until the end of the night – when nobody is around to see her walls drop, for the frame she guards around herself carefully to fall into a mix of broken shards.

It makes Harry want to throw up.

So he does.

The chair screeches against the wooden flooring as he flies out of his seat, the kind that makes your teeth grind and your jaw lock, pouring himself into the nearest cubicle and slamming it behind him. 

It takes less than a second for him to stick two fingers down his throat, his earlier meal spilling into the toilet. He keeps pressing them down until only acid is coming up and dripping from his nose, sparse droplets of blood within the mix. He’s silent, the only thing he lets himself be proud of for achieving, body only shaking slightly from the shock.  
But it’s not really a shock anymore, when you make yourself throw up various times each day.

Fumbling for his phone, fingers wiping chunks of food against his jeans, Harry dials the number which has been engraved into his mind ever since he was tripping over footballs and grazing his knees.

It only rings once.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, he’s half an hour late.” 

“You sure he’s not there?”

Harry runs a hand down his face, shaking his head at both himself and Zayn. His curls spring out, fanning across his forehead. “No, Zayn. He’s fucking stood me up. I think I’m just gonna go home –“

“No, give him another fifteen minutes. Maybe he’s… you know, had to take a shit at the last moment.”

“What?” He’s sitting on the toilet, with the lid closed, and probably exposing himself to millions of undiscovered bacteria.   
Harry wonders how people find the time to do their business and scribble over bathroom walls with permanent markers. He wants to write meaningful quotes he will never believe himself.

“What do you mean what? I always get like that when I’m stressed.”

“Zayn, I –“

“Anyway, what’s his name? You never even told me.”

Harry picks at the hem of his shirt, noticing the puddle his shoes are almost submerged in. It’s definitely not water by the smell of it. Harry hates himself. “It’s Park.”  
“Park? Are you fucking shitting me? That’s not good. Who the fuck is called –“

He doesn't want to hear anymore. 

Harry rolls his eyes, hanging up the phone and stuffing it back into his pocket, pushing the heel of his hands against his eyes; vision clouding over black, specks of colour merging through. 

He waits a few minutes before gaining the courage to leave the cubicle, head peaking around the door after unlocking it swiftly. Straightening his heart-printed shirt, Harry inhales shakily and dares a glance at his reflection. Blots of red are scattered across his cheeks, eyes blood-shot with bags heavy under them. There’s drool hanging from his lips, but Harry only wipes it off with the back of his hand before heading back to the table with knocking knees. 

*  
There’s a boy sitting at the bar, seeming content in his own company. Harry hadn't noticed him before, too submerged in keeping his focus on the table. There are scratches littering the fading wood, his fingers drumming on the table nervously, chewing his lip slightly. Rising from his seat, deciding to take the chance, the heel of Harry’s boots tap heavily against the floorboards as he makes his way over to the bar.

The barman offers him a drink, to which Harry accepts with shaking hands. The liquid is spilling over the brim, coating his fingers, dripping into the patterns etched on the wood. A sudden burst of confidence erupts from him, clearing his throat softly as he tries to put on his most charming smile.

It looks like a mix between pain and constipation, but. 

“Are you called Park?”

The boy looks up from his fringe, sipping his wine with a brow cocked. He shakes his head once, short, before taking his attention elsewhere.

“Are you sure?” Harry scratches the back of his neck, persistent, the sudden urge to tear his flesh apart spiraling across every inch of his skin. “It’s just that you look a lot like the guy I was meant to be meeting. But he was meant to be wearing blue.”

Once again, the boy looks up at Harry. The wine is almost finished, but he still doesn't bother to answer in a polite manner or maybe even speak a few words if he was feeling adventurous. Instead, he gestures to his clothes; a plain, white t-shirt with black skinny jeans.

They look more like leggings, really. But they’re not blue, so.

“Okay, um. I’m sorry. It’s just that you look a lot like his photograph.”

With a heavy blink, the boy takes the glass away from his lips and sets it down on the table gently. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t help.” 

Harry can tell that he’s not sorry at all, voice laced with sarcasm, but it’s a step further than before. “Okay, erm. Sorry. Again. Um.”

He scuttles off back to his table, pinging the elastic band on his wrist relentlessly. 

*

“I decided not to do this.”

Harry had just set down his J2O bottle, eyes flickering up to see the same boy from the bar. His lips are pouted, arms crossed against his chest, brow risen challengingly. 

“Oh, um. What?”

“No offense.”

It takes a moment for Harry to fully take in what the boy is saying, fingers locked together on his lap. “Um,” he begins again, blunt nails digging into his palms, broad shoulders hunched over consciously. “None taken, it’s fine.”

He hears a sigh, one which is screaming boredom. There’s an uncomfortable stirring in his stomach, and the cutlery on the table seems perfect for sticking down his throat.  
He can’t, though.

“Do you, erm, always do this? Pretend to not be here? I’ve been sat here for the past half hour, waiting like a fool for you.” He’s trying to act like he’s not fazed, but the slight crack in Harry’s voice gives him away.

“Yeah, well.” The boy shrugs, like there isn’t an inch of guilt running through him. “There’s a lot of dicks out there.”

Harry’s eyes widen, the previous fear floating away. His nails have broken the skin, droplets of blood falling from his palms. “Well, thanks.”

The boy rolls his eyes, jaw locking as his pout becomes more prominent. “I didn’t mean you.” His tone is irritated, a hip jotted out as he looks down at his nails.

“It’s fine, like, whatever.” Harry takes a sip of his J2O, purposely avoiding the boy’s gaze. He feels inferior, limbs pressed together in an effort to make himself smaller, sat down as the other stands tall and confident.

“You’re just not my thing.”

A bitter laugh escapes Harry’s lips. “I know.”

“Just,” the boy waves his hand around in the air, hoping his point will come across easier. “Just don’t wear the heart-print with a tie. It makes you look Canadian.”

Harry looks down at his shirt, brows furrowing as his finger traces over the pattern. It was a present from his mum, a polite way of telling Harry he needed better fashion sense. “What’s wrong with being Canadian?”

“I – fuck, look.” He runs a small hand through his fine hair, taking a second to compose himself. “I’m not even going to list the reasons why it is wrong to be Canadian.”

Peering up from beneath his fringe, Harry juts out his button lip as he nods slowly. “Well, okay.” He continues to nod, not quite sure when to stop, not understanding what’s so bad about looking Canadian. “Thanks for telling me anyway, Park.”

His head drops into his lap again, nails digging into his jeans and pulling at a loose string. There are holes scattered across his jeans from where he’s had to release his anxiety by scratching at the fabric, unable to scar places he wishes to in public. 

The sound of a throat being cleared draws Harry out of his morbidity, gaze focusing on the boy falling into the chair opposite him. His elbow is resting on the table, chin perched in his hand, and he’s looking at Harry with the same judgmental gaze.

“It’s different when you’re face to face, isn’t it? Not like when you’re online. It’s different.”

Harry blinks for a few solid moments, eyes wide and doe-like. His lips part before he closes them again, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, this is my first time. My friend sort of set me up on that dating website.” Harry itches at his nose, tearing off his nail under the table. “Said I needed to get out more.”

The boy sits up straighter, scoffing as he stares at Harry in disbelief. “Okay, so you thought I would be your Prince Charming then? I mean, how long have you been signed up?”  
“Um, about six months.”

A sudden snort causes Harry’s cheeks to redden, the blush falling down to his neck. He can feel his eyes beginning to well up, the humiliation consuming him and scraping against his skin teasingly. 

“Wow.” His hand falls to the table, a grin stretched across his lips and exposing his sharp teeth. “Just, wow.”

“Look, it doesn’t really matter, Park.” Harry inhales deeply, wiggling his fingers to take off the edge off the tension in his muscles. “As it goes, I don’t really like people who are rude.”

“Rude?”

“Yeah, rude.”

Another scoff leaves the thin lips which Harry refuses to admit he’s drawn to, leaning forward with a brow cocked as his smile drops. “I’m sorry, what?”

Harry raises trembling fingers to the bridge of his nose, shaking his hand as well as his head. “Look, it was nice meeting you. Okay? But I’m probably just gonna sit here and invite my friend to have dinner with me. So, you can leave.” 

He lifts his hand to gather the waitress’s attention, smiling softly as he opens up his menu. He points at the starters, asking for a salad with no dressing. The boy is still sat there with parted lips, eyes flickering up the waitress who addresses him politely. 

“Oh, hi. I see you’ve arrived. Can I get you anything?”

Harry’s quick to interrupt, smiling forcefully with tight lips. “No, no. He’s just going.” Lifting a hand up, he waves shortly with what he hopes is a bitchy smile. It probably looks kind, knowing him.

With a final blink, the boy stands up and shrugs his coat on. He doesn’t bother looking back, only ruffling his hair and smiling at the man who holds the door open for him. Pulling out a cigarette, tightening his coat around his small frame to block out the harsh winter breeze, he lights up and takes a long drag. His head falls back against the window of the restaurant, cigarette dangling from his lips as he takes out his ringing phone and answers.

“So, did you leave?”

“Yes, fuck. He’s looks like a damn Canadian. It’s ridiculous.” He flicks the tip of his cigarette, turning his head to watch Harry through the window. “He’s like a baby giraffe or some shit.”

“You know, babe, you can just come back to mine if you want.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I –“ He pauses mid sentence, catching Harry giggling at something the waitress said and a light blush grazing over his cheeks. There’s a moment where everything seems to freeze, Harry’s hand grazing against her arm and a wide smile creeping onto his lips. He’s saying something and she’s laughing, her hand coming up to hide her mouth. “You know what, fuck this –“ 

Hanging up the phone, he stubs out his cigarette and makes his way back into the restaurant. He makes sure to be extra obnoxious with his feet stomping, huffing and throwing his bag onto the floor. 

“I fucking saw that.”

Harry gapes at him, watching as the boy sits back in the opposite chair again, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I was right outside, you know. I was watching you about to bend Miss Big Nose over and pop her cherry.”

“What? No, no – we were just chatting.”

The boy shakes his head, eyes level with Harry’s. “Ripping the shit out of me, you mean?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry nods with a tight smile. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“I don’t appreciate that.”

“Well, I don’t appreciate you waltzing over here once you’ve already stood me up. You already told me I wasn’t your thing, so.” Harry’s voice softens, sighing softly and fiddling with his sleeve. The buttons are worn despite being new, the result of Harry’s constant anxiety scratching at the thin layer of metal.

A heavy, loud groan manages to fill the room despite there being a dull buzz of chatter, and Harry peers up to find the boy shrugging off his coat. “Stop pitying yourself and buy me a drink, would you?”

“I –“ His thumb is bleeding from where he ripped the skin off, pushing down on the cut with his finger to apply pressure. “I didn’t invite you to stay.”

“But you want me to.”

“No, I –“ Harry glances up as the waitress places his salad in front of him, taking a moment to smile politely and thank her. “Why would I want you to?”

“Because –” The boy opens up the menu, not bothering to look down at the contents before closing it abruptly. “I’ll have whatever he’s having, thanks.” 

“No, he’s –“

“And because men like to be on dates with me.” Harry continues to be interrupted, slim fingers coming to rest on a sharp jaw line opposite him. “They’re grateful, mostly.”

“I don’t feel very grateful.”

His body slumps, eyes cast downwards and his lips pursed. “Look – Harry, right? Tonight just isn’t a good night, and I just can’t be bothered. You know?”

“Well,” Harry begins, tangling his fingers on the table and managing to meet the boy’s eyes. They’re softer than previously, and worn crinkles rest beside them. “You don’t have to be here. I’m not forcing you into anything, Park.”

“How about I tell you my story, and you tell me yours?” Maybe we’ll get so frustrated and bored of each other that we’ll end up going back to yours and fucking like rabbits.” A smirk plays on the boys lips, a brow raised as he leans forward on his forearms. “Never even know our real names.”

Harry stares at the boy for a long moment, his chest tightening and cheeks flaring up at the suggestion. Blood is trickling down his palm from where he ripped off another nail, pooling along his life line. “You’re not called Park?”

“Oh, come on.“ A sudden snort draws Harry out of his loathing, swallowing thickly as the boy continues to laugh. “Nobody’s actually called Park.”

“My, erm –“ Harry sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, clearing his throat gently. “My name is actually Harry, for the record.”

There’s a long pause within conversation, the boy staring intently across the table while Harry focuses on the deep scar etched into the table. It begins as just a scratch, soon forming a harsh wound before it disappears off the edge. 

“Louis.” The word lifts Harry’s posture up, eyes blinking heavily. “My name is Louis.”

“Louis?”

“Louis.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and bookmarks sunshine and kisses are appreciated!! ◕‿◕
> 
> my tumblr is zouisstylinson.tumblr.com if you’re interested in talking to me because sometimes i don’t always reply to comments even though i love you all with my bottom louis heart :(


End file.
